


The Art Of Seduction: Sherlock PoV Outtakes

by flawedamythyst



Series: The Art Of Seduction [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 16:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two of the scenes from The Art Of Seduction retold from Sherlock's PoV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock Refuses To Seduce John, And So Loses Jim's Game

It was a good evening, right up until bloody Mycroft appeared and ruined it. John was clearly about to break up with the idiot he'd been seeing, which meant Sherlock would get his undivided attention again; they'd spent a good deal of time dancing together, which Sherlock always enjoyed on a level that was vaguely inexplicable but still worth indulging; and he'd finished the toilet cubicle acoustics experiment with some very satisfying results, which meant he'd have something to type up tomorrow morning while John was meandering through his Saturday morning routine. 

Sherlock very much enjoyed watching the way it took John an hour or so to properly wake up after a night out, how he wandered around looking rumpled and half-asleep in his dressing gown, clutching at a cup of tea as if it was his only salvation. However, Sherlock had also found that when he didn't have something to occupy his hands while he watched, he found himself wanting to reach out for John, and that wasn't allowed. He'd already made that decision and none of the factors involved had changed enough to warrant rethinking it. Therefore, it was for the best when he had something to type up on Saturday mornings. The experimental procedure he'd used to ascertain the exact acoustics of each toilet cubicle, along with the results, would do nicely.

And so Sherlock had been in a good mood, right up until Mycroft appeared, as if from nowhere, to sneer at Sherlock and then abscond with one of his acquaintances. The interfering bastard. 

And what had he meant by his snide comparison between his own situation with Greg, and Sherlock's with John? There was nothing similar about them at all. Greg and Mycroft were involved in some sort of bizarre courtship ritual that Sherlock found horrifying to contemplate, and he and John were friends. Close friends, but nothing that involved flirting via umbrella, or dates at expensive patisseries, or petting anyone's waistcoat. Mycroft didn't know what he was talking about.

Sherlock danced with John again after that, but Mycroft's intrusion into the Criterion – which was Sherlock's place, and Mycroft knew that, why would he come here and interfere? – seemed to have poisoned it somehow. Besides, now that his acoustics experiment was completed, he was very aware that he didn't have anything to work on, and that meant everything in the club was rapidly becoming dull.

Then he spotted Jim and his mood lightened. Jim could always be relied upon to come up with something new to do.

“You look bored,” said Jim as soon as Sherlock was near enough to hear him. He glanced over Sherlock's shoulder at where John was still dancing, and raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock ignored the implication that John was boring. Jim didn't like John and often made little digs at him, which suited Sherlock just fine. It meant that Jim had never actually looked at John and seen who he really was, seen just how fascinating and lovely he was. As long as Jim didn't think John was worth bothering with, Sherlock didn't have to worry about him attempting to usurp Sherlock's place as the resident genius in John's life.

“I finished the acoustics experiment,” Sherlock said instead. Jim raised his eyebrows with interest, so Sherlock gave him a quick run down of the results. “Full details will be on my website tomorrow,” he added. 

“I look forward to it,” said Jim, and he actually meant it, unlike John and Greg's mocking earlier. Jim understood just how important these things were. “Until then, would you like to play a game?”

Sherlock wanted nothing more. He suppressed a smile – no need to seem too eager. “What kind of game?”

Jim grinned. “Well, let's see,” he said, glancing around the club as if Sherlock didn't know he'd already decided exactly what the game would be. “Would you say you could pull any man in here?”

Sherlock scoffed. Too easy. “Of course I can pull any man in here. Don't be an idiot, Jim – no one here's a real challenge.” He didn't even have to look around to know the answer to that, although he did note that John had abandoned the dance floor in order to come over. No doubt he'd disapprove of whatever Jim was about to suggest. Well, Sherlock disapproved of wasting time on dull dinners out with Sean when he could be with Sherlock. It would be so much more efficient if John just had sex with the man, then came straight home.

“No one?” asked Molly. When had she turned up? Sherlock must have been concentrating on Jim too closely to notice. “Wow, I wish I had your confidence.”

“If you did, you wouldn't spend all your time in gay clubs, hiding from men who might actually consider you a viable partner,” said Sherlock without thinking, and then wanted to bite his tongue when he saw John's glare. Damn, if he alienated Molly, he might not get first look at her new stock, and then how would he keep his website up-to-date?

“This is the game, then,” said Jim, and Sherlock's attention immediately snapped back to him. “If you can't pull someone who I pick out – and I mean 'pull' in the old-fashioned, take-them-home-and-shag-them sense, then you come back to mine, and I shag you.”

Sherlock frowned. Why was Jim always so set on sex between them as a forfeit in these games? They'd already had sex twice! What more data could there be worth collecting? “I don't have sex in other people's homes,” he said, rather than point that out.

“And that's why it's the forfeit,” said Jim. “Besides, you're missing out – I've got some bits of equipment that you wouldn't believe.”

That, at least, was intriguing. Besides, it wasn't as if Sherlock was going to lose this one. He couldn't remember the last time he'd set out to seduce someone and failed. Had it ever happened? “And when I win?” he asked.

Jim shrugged. “I don't know. A smug feeling of superiority? A chance to cherish the look of surprise on my face?”

Sherlock wondered if he should insist on a proper prize, but he couldn't really be bothered. The only things he wanted from Jim were things he got anyway – a like mind on matters of sex for when John's incomprehension of the importance of Sherlock's work got too wearing, and the occasional diversion when he was bored.

Time to set some limits. This was a game, and Jim would be playing to win. No need to hand him an easy victory by not eradicating the most obvious of his plays. “No women,” he specified, then ignored Molly's rather predictable response to that. Honestly, didn't she realise just how pointless it was to be perpetually looking in all the wrong places?

“Of course not,” agreed Jim.

“And no one I've already shagged,” added Sherlock. He might as well use this encounter for some data collection, after all. The pina colada lube that came out last month hadn't been tested in either positions 6 or 9 yet.

Jim rolled his eyes as if he hadn't know Sherlock would insist on that. “Picky, picky,” he said. “I can accommodate that, though. Are you in?”

Sherlock thought for a moment, looking for any other tricks Jim might play. He obviously had some plan in mind but Sherlock couldn't imagine that it would be any real problem. He knew he could seduce any man in the Criterion, regardless of the fine details. If he picked the ugliest man in there, well, it wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't conducted a range of experiments on sexual accomplishment in less attractive men, and if he picked the oldest one, well, that would just make the seduction extremely easy, as long as Sherlock kept his recent hip operation in mind. No one was straight enough to resist Sherlock for long – Anderson had learnt that lesson the hard way. What other cards could Jim play?

“Excellent!” said Jim, and there was a tone in his voice that suddenly made Sherlock doubt himself. What had he missed? Who exactly was in tonight? Oh god, Mycroft hadn't come back, had he? “In that case,” continued Jim, “Eeeny, meeny, miny...” he chanted, then spun around and pointed straight at John. “Mo.”

Sherlock felt himself freeze. Oh. Oh, of course. Clever.

“What?” asked John, his eyes widening almost comically. Clearly he hadn't considered himself as a possibility. He couldn't be blamed for that – after all, Sherlock hadn't either.

“I choose you, Johnny-chu!” said Jim. “Should be easy enough, right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock still couldn't speak. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine just that. It wouldn't take much to persuade John, Sherlock had known that since the day they'd met. He could have him so easily, and the data collected would be by far the most interesting and valuable that Sherlock had gathered in months. Years. Possibly ever.

“I'm seeing someone,” protested John, as if Sherlock wouldn't be able to make him forget all about Sean in a heartbeat. One kiss would be enough, given the current state of the relationship, and then John would be his, completely focused on him. Just him.

“As if anyone here thinks that's going to last the weekend. Besides, Sherlock never specified a single man. So, how about it, Sherlock?” said Jim, grinning as if he had no idea just how much trouble he was causing. “What kind of moves would you put on Johnny-boy to get him into bed?”

Time to stop indulging in fantasy. Sherlock forced himself to fling away all the thoughts of John in his bed, naked and sweaty and grinning up at Sherlock as if he was everything. It couldn't happen. Sherlock needed him far too much to have sex with him, not when everything that would come after the sex was so precarious. What if it destroyed their friendship? What if John left? What if he became boring afterwards, like everyone else Sherlock had ever had sex with? He couldn't imagine being without John now, it would be awful. He couldn't risk it. There was only one answer to give Jim.

“Don't be ridiculous,” he said scornfully. “I'm not going to have sex with John.”

“You're forfeiting?” asked Jim. “Without even trying? Oh, Sherlock, I thought better of you – where's that competitive edge I love?”

Forfeiting. Oh god, he was going to have to spend the night at Jim's. Well, if he had to have repeat sex with anyone, at least Jim wasn't boring about it and the equipment he mentioned might be interesting. And anything was better than losing John.

Sherlock found that he was unable to look at John, in case he ended up cracking and giving in anyway. He shouldn't have let himself think about it, not in that much detail. He told Jim he'd meet him later, then strode away, desperate to find somewhere to calm down and reset his thoughts. He had to get John and sex back in to separate boxes again, or it would be all he'd be able to think about.


	2. John Goes Missing

Everything was starting to get painfully dull. All the interesting men were cowering indoors, hiding from this serial killer, and Sherlock was left with nothing to do, no data, no experiments, nothing. It was excruciating.

And John was only making things worse. He was always _there_ , being so intensely John, reminding Sherlock of all the points of data he represented that Sherlock hadn't collected, all the ways he could be taken apart and made to beg and the many absolutely fascinating things that Sherlock could do with him, if he just let go of his resolution not to.

It was a relief when John said he was going for a walk. If he wasn't in the flat, Sherlock wouldn't be tempted to kiss him and find out just how talented that tongue that he insisted on darting out to lick his lips every few minutes was.

“You better be done thinking when I get back,” said John as he left, “because I'll be putting Doctor Who on.”

“I would expect nothing less,” said Sherlock. It was a Sunday night, after all, and some things were entirely too predictable. The world would have to end before John stopped putting Doctor Who on every Sunday night. He found himself smiling with fondness at the thought, and he marvelled at John's ability to break through the boredom that felt as if it was encasing him. “You know I would never get between you and your Time Lord.”

John grinned back. “I should hope not,” he said, gathering his wallet and his keys. “You know some things are far more important than friendship.”

Yes, thought Sherlock, but not many things. New data and something to actually do instead of drowning in boredom were not on the list. “Only a very few things,” he heard himself say, wondering how it was that anything had come to be worth more than sex. He'd never have predicted that, before meeting John. The work had been the only important thing in his life, then.

John left, and Sherlock settled into this new train of thought for the hour he had before there was takeaway and The Doctor. John was so obviously and completely in a category of his own when it came to importance. Did that mean that he would remain so even after a sexual encounter, or would that affect the balance? Any risk of that at all was too much risk, no matter how fascinating the data would be.

****

John had been gone too long. His walk would have been forty-five minutes at most, add another fifteen for the takeaway, and he should have been back at least ten minutes ago. Sherlock glanced at the clock and told himself he was being stupid. Perhaps John had gone the long way, or the takeaway was taking longer than usual. He'd give it another fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes later, he gave in and texted John.

_If you're not back soon, I'll start watching without you. SH_

There was no reply. Sherlock checked to make sure John hadn't left his phone behind, but it was just as gone as he was, so he texted again.

_Where are you? SH_

Still nothing. John always replied to Sherlock's texts, unless he was sleeping, at work, or sulking. Sherlock pulled a breath in through his nose, reminded himself for the fiftieth time in the last ten minutes that the serial killer's M.O. did not include kidnapping men off the streets, and texted again.

_John, reply please. SH_

Of course, there were plenty of other criminals out there who might attack someone on the street, not to mention all manner of accidents that might befall someone on the busy roads of London. He found himself hitting the call button despite his dislike of actually speaking on the phone. It rang and rang without answer. There was a sick feeling in Sherlock's gut that he couldn't shake. John had been gone for less than two hours, this level of worry was almost certainly not warranted.

Except that every single victim of the serial killer so far had been a man Sherlock had slept with. John had thought that meant something – if it had, then the logical escalation was to take the only man Sherlock actually cared about, the one who he shared his home and his life with.

He texted Greg. What was the point of knowing a policeman if you couldn't take advantage?

_John's missing. Are there signs that the serial killer might be starting to escalate? Any reports of accidents around Baker Street? I need to find him. SH_

He grabbed his keys and headed out the door, calling to Mrs. Hudson as he ran down the stairs. “If John gets back before I do, tell him to call me immediately!”

“What's that, dear?” she said as she opened her front door, but Sherlock was already outside and striding down the street.

Greg called him while he was still tracking John's probable route, and he explained to him as quickly as he could.

“Sherlock,” said Greg with a sigh that meant he was going to be no use. “Two hours isn't exactly long enough to worry, especially not when he said he was going for a walk.”

“You're an idiot,” snapped Sherlock. “No, don't protest, we both know it's true. I am much cleverer than you, and I know John much better, and I am telling you. There is reason to worry.”

“Just give it a bit longer,” said Greg, and Sherlock hung up on him.

He'd reached Tang's, so he went inside and asked if John had been in yet. He had, and he'd left with their usual order over an hour ago. He would have taken the quickest way back to 221B – he hated cold Chinese – and so there had to be some sign along the way of where he'd gone.

It took him another ten minutes of hunting down every possible turn-off to find the takeaway, abandoned down an alleyway, along with several scuffled footprints, a scrap of wool from John's jumper caught on the wall, and an abandoned syringe. Sherlock's blood went cold. There was no way to deny the evidence in front of him.

He pulled his phone out again. “You have to get here,” he said as soon as Greg picked up. “John's been taken. The serial killer has him.”


End file.
